


Of Wounded Medics and Meddlesome Redheads

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Series: A Year in the Life [3]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Gene needs a goddamn break okay, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: “Can you please for once in your goddamn life stop worrying about everybody else and worry about yourself?"If he had even an ounce more of energy than he does, Gene would have rolled his eyes at Heffron’s dramatics. Instead, all he can muster is a slight frown and a somewhat weary noise of discontent.OR: Gene gets hurt real bad, and Babe's gonna take of him whether he likes it or not.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe
Series: A Year in the Life [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618882
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	Of Wounded Medics and Meddlesome Redheads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slightlytookish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlytookish/gifts).



> Getting this one posted with just over an hour to spare...! Maybe one day I'll get better at deadlines, but probably not. 
> 
> Hope ya enjoy it, Took! <3

It starts out small—a sprained wrist he wraps himself, a cut that he doesn’t bother to suture. He’s a medic, after all, and more than capable of seeing to his own health. That’s what he would say if anyone asked, but no one does because he’s _Doc Roe._ And to the men of Easy Company, the young Cajun medic is nothing short of legendary. A man mythologized.

Only, the replacements have a lot to learn, even the lucky ones like Edward ‘Babe’ Heffron who have assimilated into the upper echelons of the company, the adopted sons of Toccoa brought up in the social ranks by the likes of men such as Bill Guarnere and Johnny Martin. Because unlike the other men of Easy Co., Heffron not only has the naivety to ask Gene about the medic’s various ailments and injuries, but the mouthy redhead also has the gall to _tell_ the Cajun just what he should do about them.

“Ya really ought’a let Ralph take a look at that, huh, Gene?”

“Hey, buddy, why don’t ya have that bandaged?”

“Here. Eat this. Nah, shuddup, ya don’t eat enough, same as the rest of us. Now, _here._ ”

The encounters with the lanky South Philly redhead serve to do nothing but fluster Gene, leaving the Cajun with red-tipped ears and a twisted tongue. He’s a grown man, after all, and he doesn’t need a talking to—Heffron ain’t his momma. Yet, in spite of Gene’s lack of response to Heffron’s meddling, the redhead persists, his stubbornness a right match for the medic’s own. For months, the unwanted and, Gene thinks, unwarranted behavior continues, much to the Cajun’s chagrin.

It starts out small—until it isn’t. Small, that is.

Easy’s in Hagenau when it happens. Second Platoon is gearing up for the Patrol That Won’t Be, and Gene is taking the opportunity of a night off to scrounge around in the abandoned buildings of the once quaint French town, gleaning whatever supplies he can find. There are rumors that Easy is moving off the line soon, but Bastogne had beat it into Gene that he can’t count on his next breath, much less on scheduled resupplies and relief. So, Gene has set off with his med kit slung over one shoulder, popping in and out of dilapidated, war-torn structures that not long ago had stood proudly as general stores, brasseries, dental offices, pharmacies, people’s homes. He doesn’t find much in the first hour or so, only a couple of mildewed pillows, the stuffing of which he rips out for use as bandages in a pinch.

The raven-haired Cajun is traipsing into Hagenau’s former postal office when he catches sight of a familiar redhead at his five o’clock. “What’cha need, Heffron?”

“Nothin’. Just comin’ to say hi.”

With a surprising grace, the private loops around a rubble pile and falls into step with Gene as he ascends the front steps of the two-story building, and the medic can’t help but snort, sardonically, “Well, don’t.”

Heffron’s lips twitch into a not-quite-smirk. “Aw, what’s the matta, Gene? Didja find out the war ain’t all it’s cracked up to be?”

The shorter of the pair doesn’t deem the redhead’s goading worthy of response and immediately sets to work searching among the ruins of the Hagenau post station. He discovers mountains of paperwork—letters that were never sent or never received, tracking and shipping records. All useless to him and his men. As he rummages through desk drawers and overturned cabinets, Gene can feel the gangly South Philly private’s gaze following him as he goes.

“You misplace a letter?”

“You gonna just stand there, or you gonna be useful?”

As if on cue, the redhead begins flipping through an overturned mail sack on the floor. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Anythin’ that might come in handy. Scissors. Tape. Stuff for bandages. Safety pins. All that sort.”

“What, you’re looking for _supplies?_ Here?” The incredulity in Heffron’s tone is tangible as he glances about the ruins of the post office in disbelief. “Wouldn’t you have better luck at the pharmacy?”

The hollowed-out shell of a petite French pharmacy sits caddy cornered to First Platoon’s billet. It’s the first place Gene checked, though he knew he’d have been lucky to find so much as a band-aid.

“Pharmacy’s no good. S’already been cleaned out.”

Heffron glances around, morosely. “Gene, I just don’t think you’re gonna find anything here. Why don’t you come back to billet with me? Liebgott managed to get his hands on some of those candy bars from CP, and Malarkey and Randleman are roasting some of those potatoes—” The redhead trails off, but Gene still hears what he doesn’t say.

Those potatoes that Bill Kiehn died for yesterday. 

The redhead clears his throat. “So, whatta ya say? A little chocolate and spuds ain’t gonna hurt ya. Maybe you can have a nap, too, and—”

What began as a mild irritation, then slowly festered into a plaguing annoyance, now fills Gene with a wild, near-manic rage. He can feel the heat of it warming his chest and pooling in his stomach, his muscles taunt as he attempts to control his impending fury. Spinning on his heels, sending a stack of envelopes scattering, Gene glares at the private with all the command he can muster. “You’ve gotta quit it, Heffron. Goddamn it, I mean it.”

Dark eyes go wide, and in his uncertainty, Heffron takes an unconscious step backwards, away from Gene. “What the hell are ya talkin’ about?”

“ _This_.” Gene gestures pointedly with his right hand. “You been proddin’ at me for months, Heffron, and pesterin’ me for weeks, besides. I’m a grown man, goddamn it. I don’t need you coddlin’ me like I’m a child.”

“Gene, I wasn’t—”

“No, I won’t hear it. You know what you’ve been doin’, and I’m sick of it, alright? You gotta _stop._ ”

The redhead swallows. He can’t bring himself to look Gene in the eye, and as a slight glimpse of guilt flashes across Heffron’s pale face, Gene feels a sliver of regret. His rage slowly receding, the medic takes a calming breath. He won’t apologize. He may have been harsh, but he knows he’s in the right. Instead, Gene’s lips part as he offers a solution to the current awkwardness. “I’m gonna keep lookin’ ‘round here. Why don’t you head back…save some potatoes for me…”

It’s the closest to a peace offering that Heffron’s gonna get, and Gene can see by the way the private’s jaw clenches that he knows it. With a slight nod, the redhead concedes. “Sure, Gene. I’ll just, uh—” His words die out as a familiar whistle tickles his ear. 

Across the ramshackle floor of the Hagenau postal station, Gene and Heffron lock eyes.

Before the word “shelling” can form properly in Gene’s mind, Heffron is already crossing the floor to tackle the Cajun to the ground. The paratroopers attempt to shelter in place behind one of the desks, but it’s no use—the kraut bomb drops, and everything goes to hell in a flash of gray rock and white dust. For several seconds, the world is utterly terrifying, but Gene can’t feel a damn thing. He can’t feel the breath in his lungs or the thud of a pulse in his ears. He can’t feel the trembling floor beneath him or the cool, clammy weight of Heffron’s hand on his arm. He can’t feet the boots on his feet.

Then, slowly, the dust settles around them, and all Gene can feel is _pain._

“Aw, fuck. Aw, _fuck._ ” 

He is numbly aware of Heffron’s scrambling beside him, of the redhead’s hand frantically touching him, surveying his body, of the incoherent string of Babe Babble spewing from the private’s lips. But Gene can’t truly absorb the moment. He’s too consumed by the pain. He _hurts._ Hurts something awful, hurts so goddamn bad that he can’t even breathe.

_Lord Jesus, am I dyin’?_

There are little white spots on the edge of his vision, the overall quality of which is inconveniently blurry. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he thinks that’s not a good sign. He needs to sit up. He needs to—

“Whoa, whoa, Gene, buddy, whatta ya doin’? Just stay _down_ , okay? Just, _please_ , stop. Be still, alright?” Heffron’s hands are holding him in place, and Gene can’t imagine whatever for. Didn’t they just have this conversation? Didn’t he _just_ tell the redhead to back off? Why wouldn’t he just listen? Before Gene can offer a riposte, Heffron’s voice echoes in his ear, “I don’t know what to do, Gene. You gotta tell me what to do.”

Gene has no clue what the redhead’s rambling about, and once more, he struggles to sit up to better assess the situation.

“Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_ , Eugene, stop trying to sit the fuck up! Just lay down, goddamn it.”

Heffron’s hands are firm on his chest. Gene has the good sense to be affronted by the private’s behavior. He wants to swat the redhead’s hands away, to insist that he leave him alone, but pain is radiating throughout Gene’s body and it takes the medic several breaths to realize that the pain is localized to his legs. He thinks, faintly, that he needs to wiggle his toes. Needs to make sure he isn’t paralyzed.

He tries to wiggle them, but he’s not sure whether or not he succeeds.

This time before he tries to raise up, the Cajun blinks the white spots out of his vision and lets his eyes bounce around the ceiling until they land on Heffron’s own worried gaze. “Need ta see m’legs.”

“What?”

“Gotta see—need ta sit—” The air in his lungs is polluted with dust, the insides of his mouth caked with the rocky powder that settles after a building has been bombed.

“Gene—” Heffron glances down at Gene’s legs. “I don’t think you can.”

Several more breaths pass, then there comes the shouting.

Heffron, hands still steadfastly pressed into Gene’s chest, manages a flicker of a smile. “Think that’s Martin. Hey, hey!” His shouts send Gene’s head reeling. “We’re in here! Me n’ Gene! We’re trapped!”

_Trapped?_

Another breath, and Gene’s head settles a bit. His body begins to feel more grounded, the full power of his senses gradually returning to him. Ah, the shelling. The post office was shelled. Tucking his chin into his chest, Gene rolls up _just so_ until he can see the wreckage at his feet. Or rather, the wreckage _on_ his feet. A feeling of dread seeping into his skin like a reverse sweat, Gene catalogues the scene before him: the entrance to the building has fully collapsed, Heffron and Gene trapped inside the unstable remains of the foundation, and the medic’s lower body is pinned beneath a small but mighty mountain of rubble.

“It hurts,” he mumbles to himself, hoping that the pain is an indication that he’s not, at least, fully paralyzed.

“I know it hurts, buddy, I know. But did you hear Martin? Winters is coming, alright?” Heffron’s words are strained as the young redhead tries to contain his own panic so as not to alarm the wounded medic. “Says we just gotta hang tough, yeah? They’re gonna get us outta here, Gene. But, uh—but until they do, you gotta tell me what to do. ‘Cause I’m a little outta my depth here, I’ll be honest.”

The pain is damn near blinding. Gene grits his teeth against it, feels his hands curling into weak fists at his sides. His voice is low when he answers. “There’s nothing for you to do, Heffron. M’fine.”

Heffron makes a strangled noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You’re outta you’re goddamn mind. You are _not_ fine, Gene. You are very much so _not—fine—,_ do ya hear me? So, tell me what to do.”

The order is fierce, and Gene’s head is just fuzzy enough that between the barked words and Heffron’s red hair, that the Cajun has a brief vision of Major Winters kneeling there beside him. The delusion is fleeting, and when it passes, Gene swallows dryly. “Water. You got any water?”

Heffron’s canteen is at his lips in an instant. Though the private is gentle, the angle is unhelpful and Gene nearly chokes at the sudden onslaught of water, a small waterfall pouring into his mouth. “Ah, fuck. Sorry, Gene.” The water feels cool as it runs down his chin and throat. He swallows what he can, then looks at Heffron pointedly.

“You gotta help me sit up a bit. I need to see what’s goin’ on down there.”

There’s a frown on the redhead’s lips even as he complies with the medic’s command. Heffron doesn’t allow him to move by much, just enough to raise up onto his elbows and survey the situation. He’s pinned, bad. His entire right leg is buried beneath the crumpled entrance, and his left leg disappears into the debris just above his left knee. “Need ta—” He lays back down amid strewn mail and bits of rubble. “Need ta free my legs, if we can.”

“Alright.” Instantly, Heffron slides on his knees closer to the wreckage. Outside, beyond the pile of rocks and wood, there are voices, their Easy Co. brothers attempting desperately to clear the mess and free them. The knowledge that Winters is out there ordering around his friends in Second and the other platoons is the only thing that keeps Heffron from panic.

With shaking hands, the South Philly private reaches for a few of the smaller rocks scattered across Gene’s legs. He tosses them—pebbles, really—aside, ignoring the way Gene flinches with each one. There’s a large chunk of stone pinning down Gene’s right thigh. Heffron eyes it, wearily. He isn’t sure if he’s strong enough to lift it by himself, especially at his current angle. Moreover, the redhead’s worried that shifting the stone will cause an avalanche and only serve to further bury Gene in ruins.

“Fuck.”

Heffron’s never really been good at puzzles.

Ah, to hell with it.

He reaches for a smaller lump of rock atop the larger mass. Carefully, he withdraws it from the pile and succeeds in only sending a few pebbles cascading down. He sets the rock on the floor beside him, then turns to reach for another. Only, when he lifts this bit, he doesn’t realize that the piece is actually longer than it appears and is lodged beneath several other rock chunks. He freezes, the stone half removed in his grip, half wedged in place, as the right side of the rubble pile teeters precariously. Oh, no. Oh, damn it.

After a few frozen seconds, Heffron decides to wiggle the stone back in its place so as not to send the whole lot of it tumbling down on Gene. Only, when he does so, the weight settling back atop Gene’s lower half, the Cajun howls with pain and gives an awful jerk. The wreckage wobbles, a few of the rock pieces falling loose and raining down on them.

Heffron does his best to shield Gene’s body with his own arms and torso, taking a nasty whack to the back of his neck, though his arms are largely protecting thanks to his jacket. It takes a beat for the rubble to resettle, and then come more voices from outside.

“Stop! Stop! Ya gonna bring the whole damn house down doin’ that.”

“Jesus, Heffron, whatever you’re doing in there, cut it out!”

“Look, leave this to us, alright? We’re going to get you idiots out of there.”

It’s difficult to hear through the ringing in his ears brought on by the latest wave of pain, but Gene thinks he hears Nixon, maybe Spiers. Hadn’t Heffron mentioned Martin earlier? Regardless of who’s on rescue duty, Gene knows they have to hurry. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay conscious for. The fight to keep his eyes open grows harder by the minute, and he wonders, almost absently, about any bleeding.

“Must not have nicked an artery…”

“What’s that?”

Heffron’s blurry face hovers above his own. “M’legs. Must not have nicked an artery, else I’d have bled out by now.” The redhead’s face drains of color instantly, until he’s completely ashen with a ghostly white pallor. Gene feels his own forehead wrinkle. “Heffron, you alright?”

The Cajun is startled by the laugh that bubbles up and bursts out of Heffron.

“I’m just peachy, Gene. Say, could you do me a favor?” Gene isn’t sure he’s currently good for much, but he’s willing to give it a try. The redhead must read the concession on the medic’s face because he barrels forward without waiting for a response. “Can you please for once in your goddamn life stop worrying about everybody else and worry about yourself? Fuckin’, _please_?”

If he had even an ounce more of energy than he does, Gene would have rolled his eyes at Heffron’s dramatics. Instead, all he can muster is a slight frown and a somewhat weary noise of discontent. “It’s m’job to worry about other folks, Heffron.”

“You gotta make sure you’re alive _to_ worry, Eugene.”

“I don’t look alive to you?”

The private, still kneeling beside Gene’s head, sails right passed the sarcasm. “And what’s with this ‘Heffron’ shit? I thought we were over that.”

Very purposefully, Gene inhales and releases. “Okay, _Babe._ ”

Dark eyes narrow on his face. “Fuck you.”

There’s real heat behind the words, a genuine anger, but the sentiment falls flat as Heffron’s face remains overwhelmed by his obvious worry for Gene. The open emotion there, displayed without the slightest hint of embarrassment or shame, amazes the Cajun. He’s never met somebody as expressive as Edward Heffron. Gene swallows the sudden lump that’s risen in his throat. “M’alright, Heffron. Really.”

The private’s body sags. “No, you’re not.” This time when he speaks, the words come out soft and sad, laced with resignation. “Why can’t you just—I mean, Christ, Gene, what are you so damn afraid of?”

The air inside the grotto that’s been made of the Hagenau post office is thick. Caked with dust and debris, and weighted down with an unmistakable tension, the air makes it almost impossible to breathe. Unfortunately, the pain thrumming through his legs and ricocheting up his body is such that focusing on his breathing is currently the only thing Gene has going for him. Pinned equally by the concaved entrance and by Heffron’s anxious stare, the medic wheezes a little.

“You need some more water…” Heffron mumbles it more to himself than to Gene as he frets about for his canteen. “You need…”

The image is striking: the redheaded private on his knees fumbling about amid stone fragments and old mail, desperately searching for water just to relieve a bit of Gene’s distress, a manic sheen coating his gaze. For a fleeting second, Gene wonders if this is how he looks out on the line when he treats his men. Then, abruptly, he knows he doesn’t. Gene couldn’t visibly show that much damn emotion even if he actively tried.

Suddenly, Gene feels like an ass. His earlier words to Heffron echo back in his ears, and he feels the shame creep over him. All this boy was trying to do was look out for him, same as Gene did for everybody else. And yeah, maybe it isn’t Heffron’s job, not the way it is Gene’s. But it’s plain to see that the redhead’s smothering comes from a genuine place of caring.

“M’sorry.”

Hands still, a canteen pitched mid-air. Heffron gives a curt shake of his head. “This ain’t your fault, Gene. It was a goddamn shell.”

The medic feels the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. “Not this. For…for earlier. Didn’t mean it.”

Gene sees the moment his words click in Heffron’s head.

“It’s just that—” Gene stops, already stumbling over his own words. He’s never been a great communicator. He’s never gonna be FDR, never hold a fireside chat and enrapture thousands with his tongue. But he can do this. He can talk to Heffron. The dark-haired man searches for a minute longer inside his head, the words forming behind his eyes. Then, he breathes and they spill forward. “They keep dying. Muck, Penk, Renée, Jackson—” He looks Babe in the eye. “—Julian…they all keep on dyin’, and I can’t save ‘em. But I can at least try. And in order to try, I gotta be here. I can’t give ‘em no excuse to send me off the line, ya understand?”

“Jesus, Eugene…” Heffron sighs and his hand comes to rest once again on Gene’s chest. The long, skinny fingers flex there. “You know you’re only a man, right? You’re just one of us. You’re not God or Gen. Eisenhower or baby Jesus. There’s only so much you can take—”

“I know that, Heff—”

“Do you?”

The redhead doesn’t mention Bastogne. Doesn’t mention those dark days when Gene was lost to the world, sequestered away in his foxhole. Doesn’t mention that Harry Welsh nearly bled to death in the snow because Gene couldn’t see or hear anything besides his own two feet and his own heartbeat. Doesn’t mention the scar across his palm, all pink and raised, courtesy of the medic. Heffron doesn’t mention any of this. But Gene hears it, anyway.

When the Cajun glances away, turning his head to gaze into the back rooms of the postal station, Heffron heaves a great sigh and begins to shift until he’s sitting on his ass, knees crisscrossed so that he can lift Gene’s head to lay it in his lap.

“What’re you—I’m _fine,_ Heffron.”

For the hundredth time that day, and perhaps the millionth time since he’d joined up, the redhead rolls his eyes at the medic’s meager protests. “If you say the word ‘fine’ one more goddamn time, I swear…” The threat is grumbled low, soft so as not to truly disturb Gene, whose head, Heffron knows, has to be throbbing. Gently, the private raises a hand to the side of Gene’s face. He brushes away a bit of dust that’s settled on the medic’s pale skin, delighted when he reveals a little freckle near the corner of Gene’s right eye. Thin, purple lips part to question the private’s conduct, but then Heffron begins to card his fingers through Gene’s hair, and the sensation is so intimate, so loving and comforting, that Gene’s eyes nearly sting from the overwhelming emotion the simple action conjures. 

Heffron must see the struggle, the impending fight in Gene’s dark gaze, because he rolls his eyes once more and declares, unflinchingly, “Shut the fuck up, alright? Just shut the fuck up, and take it.” A noise of objection rumbles low in Gene’s throat, and Heffron’s tone lightens considerably. In a much softer manner, the redhead adds, fingers stroking through silky, recently washed strands of Gene’s dark hair, “There’s no one else here, okay? S’just you and me. Nobody’s gotta know. So, just, _please,_ Eugene, relax for me, alright?”

There’s a silent beat, and when Gene closes his eyes, settling into Heffron’s lap and nestling against his touch, the redhead breathes a noticeable sigh of relief. Heffron cradles his head and strokes his hair, telling him quietly all the while that everything is gonna be alright. Gene can’t help but give a little half-smile as he leans into the redhead’s touch, a low purr humming in the back of throat. “Usually, I’m on the other end of this conversation.”

Heffron smooths a finger over Gene’s brow. “Yeah, well, this time it’s my turn.”

Nearly an hour passes, the two of them trapped in the quiet, before their brothers-in-arms free them from the demolished building. When it’s over and Gene has to be carried out of the wreckage and laid out on a stretcher to be driven back to an aid station, the pressure of Heffron’s hand wrapped around his arm is the only thing that keeps the Cajun from being overwhelmed by his mortification and the encroaching sense that he’s let his men down.

* * *

The day after Gene and Heffron are trapped, Easy moves off the line.

As the medic had suspected, his legs are severely damaged. Beyond the obvious broken bone, there’s muscle and nerve damage, and Gene spends the next several weeks receiving medical attention, including a minor surgery and some intense physical therapy. Just as he feared, the raven-haired medic remains stuck in some aid hospital in northern France while the paratroopers move on without him.

The company is in Austria, and it’s well passed V-E day by the time Gene’s casts are removed and the Cajun can rejoin his men for Occupational Duty. When he does, there’s no sparing the welcome wagon. He’s greeted by dozens of familiar, warm faces, and a few fresh-eyed replacements he doesn’t yet know. First, there’s a handshake from Major Winters and a wink from Capt. Nixon when Gene arrives and receives his newest orders. Then, there are the customary slaps on the back or shoulder from guys like Luz, Christenson, and Liebgott, and happy smiles and crinkled eyes from the likes of Lipton and Webster. There’s even a cozy hug from Shifty Powers. Moreover, there are a million questions coming at the short Cajun all at once.

“Hiya, Doc, did you miss us?”

“Say, any pretty nurses where you’re from? Ha!”

“So, are you all good now? I mean, you’re all fixed up, aren’t ya?”

“Hey, did you see Buck or any of the boys at the aid station?”

“Ain’t you glad you’re back?”

Spina eventually elbows his way through the crowd to find a blushing Gene and promptly tosses an arm around his fellow medic, guiding him through the fanfare. “Alright, alright, ya assholes! Let a man breathe!” Only, the second they’re alone, wandering through a maze of fancy houses tucked into a rolling green hillside, Spina immediately launches into a rant about all the shit Gene’s missed. The Philly native tells him about the Eagle’s Nest and the 506th’s race against the French. Tells him about Talbert destroying a Mercedes-Benz just for the hell of it and how Winters wasn’t even _mad_ about it. Tells him about finding Reich Marshal Goering’s private cellar and about Nixon looting it before organizing truckloads of liquor, wine, and champagne to be sent out to every company.

“And man, let me tell ya about Victory Day…”

Between one breath and the next, Spina commences with yet another great tale about the victory celebrations on the day the Germans gave the unconditional surrender. The medic concludes the story with a fat grin just as he and Gene arrive on the shores of a little lake where a few men from Easy, Dog, and Item Companies are frolicking about. “But don’t think we forgot about ya, Doc.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” If he were more animated, he might have snorted, but Gene settles for a sarcastic tone and the barely-there hint of a grin.

“We didn’t, honest. Heffron saved you a bottle of hooch and everything.” Spina jerks his chin, indicating behind Gene’s shoulder. “Speaking of…”

The Cajun turns to see Heffron walking along the shore of the lake skipping stones with Ramirez and Grant, the latter of whom appears to be chatting quietly to his comrades. The Austrian sun is blinding that day, and Gene watches for a moment as the sunlight makes the wild strands of Heffron’s red hair glow brilliantly. “He missed you, ya know.” Spina nudges Gene’s side. “Wouldn’t shut up about ya, writin’ letters and shit. Hell, I thought he was gonna fuckin’ swoon when you wrote him back that one time.”

Gene isn’t one to correct folks, so he doesn’t tell Spina that he actually wrote Heffron back three times and that the others must simply be taking longer to reach Easy. He also neglects to add that the redhead’s correspondence was not only welcome while he was in the hospital, but that the arrival of a one of Heffron’s letters through the v-mail was often the highlight of Gene’s week during his hospital stay.

Seeing the lanky redhead trekking along, staggeringly beautiful mountains and a shimmering Austrian lake behind him, Gene feels his stomach tighten and can’t help the foolish little smile that slips onto his face. He’s loath to admit it, but the medic is happy to see the private once again.

The next time Heffron rears his arm back to toss a pebble across the surface of the water, Gene doesn’t hesitate to call out. “Aye, easy there, Heffron. Don’t wanna throw out that shoulder, huh?”

“Eugene?!” Heffron whips his head around so fast that Gene might need to worry about the private getting whiplash before he ever has the chance to dislocate his arm. “Son of a bitch!”

Still, the Cajun thinks, the blinding smile that he’s rewarded with might be worth it.

Later that night Gene finds himself back on the shore of the lake, only now beneath a blanket of stars, and when Heffron appears and offers a couple of cigarettes and a bottle of champagne, Gene isn’t bothered in the least by the redhead’s coddling. In fact, the Cajun finds the attention delightful.

The bubbly drink is sweet on his tongue, and he nearly flinches, retreating and passing the bottle back to his companion. Their fingers brush as the alcohol changes hands, and Gene finds himself once more on the receiving end of one of Edward Heffron’s earth-shattering grins.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. You can thank Hermann Goering, if ya like. Or maybe Capt. Nixon for not squirreling it all away for himself.” Heffron chuckles and takes another swig from the bottle.

Gene watches the redhead’s Adam’s apple bob in the moonlight as he swallows, and in spite of himself, the Cajun’s fingers twitch in his lap. Then, all at once, every thought he’s worked so hard to keep at bay comes pouring fourth to the forefront of his mind. Being in that French hospital had made Gene realize just how close to the breaking point the medic had been while out on the line. Bastogne had beaten him down, same as the others, but Gene had been blinded by his own desperate need to save the men under his care—and, he could now admit, his own hubris. It wasn’t until he’d slept for three days straight and received a much-needed break from the constant barrage of enemy fire and malnutrition and the other trappings of war that Gene could finally see just how much he _had_ needed Heffron’s constant pestering.

He’s quite warm, suddenly. A low heat spreads from his chest outward, radiating down to his feet and out to his hands and up the back of his neck until even the tips of his ears burn red. He knows he has to say this now, or he never will.

“No, I really mean it, Babe. I wanted ta thank you for…not just for Hagenau, but for all of it.” Gene is practically buzzing. His skin feels like its on fire, so he reaches for the champagne and takes another drink to steel his nerves. His lips are damp when he replies, “I mean it. I know I was an ass before, but I—I really do appreciate you and everythin’ that ya done for me.”

Slender fingers wrap around his own, and Gene blinks away his surprise when Heffron levels him with a small but powerfully sincere smile. “You called me Babe.” Heffron punctuates his words by squeezing Gene’s hand.

“Yeah, well.” Gene swallows a laugh and passes the champagne back to Heffron. “Don’t get use to it.”

There’s a dare, bold and bright, in Heffron’s gaze when he retorts, “What if I wanna get use to it? C’mon, Gene, what’s it gonna take?”

The heat within him burns hotter still, and Gene finds that he doesn’t have an answer for the redhead’s question, but my God, is he interested to find out. 


End file.
